A Lungful of Your Smoke
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: I've seen my name in lights, I've seen my face in papers- But my civilian life, I spent ten good years waiting, waiting, waiting for you. A little history about those 5 times Rayna sent Deacon to rehab.
1. 1

_By the time that you told me, it was already plain that you'd changed.  
But your conscience was clean and as white as a line of cocaine.  
My back to the wall of your bedroom apartment,  
You're talking in circles, got two cigarettes burning,  
And I couldn't hide how afraid I was to see you so strange._

* * *

In future years, when someone would ask her, Rayna Jaymes would always say she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she realized that Deacon Claybourne had an alcohol problem. She would define it, only when absolutely necessary, as a gradual decline that just became _too much_ over time, that eventually became an addiction. In a way, that was true. She had noticed him drinking more, she had noticed it becoming more ritualistic—but the truth was, she had a moment. It was this moment that flashed in her mind any time anyone would ask, whether she answered them or not.

They'd just finished playing a show, Bucky had just become her manager, she had just become big enough to _need_ a manager. Before they went onstage, she'd spent an hour on the phone feeding quarters into a payphone, trying to reach Deacon for the first half hour, and trying to find a replacement for the second. Someone had, thankfully, come through. It was the first—and only—time Bucky had suggested she get rid of Deacon and find a new lead guitarist.

The minute she stepped off stage, she headed to Deacon's apartment, determined to wait for him. On the drive over, her heart struggled between rage and fear. She was _angry_ that he had done this, but she was also _scared_ because she didn't know where he was. She expected to let herself in and wait for him to return, but when her key twisted in the door, she found it was unlocked. As she cracked the door open, the smell of booze and cigarettes hit her all at once, and strange music hit her ears. It was a song she would never forget, but she always found that she couldn't actually recall it.

Stepping inside, she surveyed the room, and immediately felt sick. Shelves were knocked over, books strewn about. In the middle of the floor, she saw Deacon sitting cross legged at the glass coffee table with his back to her. There was a lit cigarette sitting on the glass, an empty bottle of whisky next to it, and several discarded papers that had been torn from a yellow legal pad, some crumpled into little balls, some torn in half. His hair was wild, and he was hunched over the legal pad, pen scribbling furiously. She was amazed she could hear the scratching of his pen over the music, over the sound of her own beating heart.

She closed the door behind her, and Deacon's head whipped around.

His eyes were as wild as his hair—his lips broke into an easy smile when he saw her.

"Hey, baby," His words came out in a hurry, as though his mouth didn't fit properly around them. He stood up, and clutched a few of the legal papers in his hand. He headed straight for her, when he got close enough to touch her, she stepped out of reach. He furrowed his brow, but held the papers out for her—"Look, baby. This is it. This is the song; I think I've finally gotten it." The papers wrinkled in his hands as he thrust them towards her.

She kept her hands at her sides, "Deacon." Her voice was calm, measured, "You missed the show."

His face fell, the papers released themselves from his clutches, he looked at his watch, he looked at the clock on the wall, "No, baby. Baby, no, no, no, no. I still got…" He trailed off, trying to make sense of his watch again. "Time." He finished.

She shook her head, feeling herself growing angry. "No."

He stepped away from her then, placed his hands on the back of his couch to brace himself.

Before she could stop herself, she stepped toward him, "We really _needed_ you, Deacon!" Her voice reverberated around the apartment. "This was _important_!" He still wasn't looking at her, " _I needed you_!" She said again, the anger she'd been subconsciously nursing for hours broke through full-force. "And you were here, at your apartment, _drunk_?"

That did it. He turned to her then, and she barely had time to register that she didn't recognize him, not really. When he moved to where she stood, his face full of rage, she reflexively stepped back, until she could go no further.

"This song is for _Vince_." He was in her face now, and she wasn't sure where to look, so she just pressed her back into the wall. "You know, my best friend… _who died because of me_." He finished, and Rayna started to break in, started to raise her hands to calm him, but the look in his eye stopped her. He was yelling now, "Maybe if you weren't so _fucking selfish_ , Rayna, if you didn't think the _entire fucking world revolved around you,_ you could understand that."

Her mouth fell open, and she quickly closed it. Her voice was unrecognizable when she opened it to speak again, "I'm not selfish."

He sneered at her then, and he lowered his head so their faces were even. His eyes were bleary, but they looked at her with something that made her blood run cold, "Yes." He nodded, "You _fucking_ are."

She inhaled sharply, and she felt his words echo in her body—felt them behind her eyes as the tears started to burn. He smirked.

That was the moment. That was the moment she thought about right before she fell asleep, whenever she didn't know where he was, sometimes even if she did. It was the first time she'd ever been afraid of Deacon; he'd looked so strange to her, so foreign in that moment.

She'd put her hands up and pushed him away from her, and he'd stepped back, picked up the yellow papers, and sat down at the coffee table. She could hear her own heartbeat, her ragged breath as she opened the door and walked back out, not trusting her voice to speak, not knowing what it is she should say. He didn't, she noticed, even turn to look at her as she left.

When she got home, she called Bucky, and through her sobs told him that Deacon needed help. It wasn't, she knew, part of his job description. But his voice was soft through the landline, _I know a place_ , he'd said, _I'll call_.

* * *

 _A/N: There should be 5 parts to this one. Thank you all for the encouragement. Message received. :)_


	2. 2

_Don't get me wrong, I've got no ill-will for you.  
It'd just been so long, I thought I'd always know you.  
But you're so far gone, up where the air gets thin—  
You cut the kite strings._

* * *

Rayna walked into her hotel room and sat down on the couch. Her head was pounding, the same way it had been all night. Sighing, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and began to massage the skin there. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the couch. She pressed her temples harder, the pain not an unwelcome distraction from her thoughts.

Six months. That's how long Deacon had been out of rehab. Things had been going well—Rayna introduced Deacon to Coleman, and they'd quickly developed a bond, and the whole sponsor thing really seemed to be working. He wasn't going to meetings regularly, but he'd avoided alcohol and bars and things seemed to be looking up. Deacon had apologized for that night in his apartment—he'd been near tears—and Rayna had cradled his head in her arms and told him it was okay.

For a while, it was okay.

And then, with the anniversary of Vince's death approaching, he started staying out later and later, started having drinks here and there, until it suddenly wasn't.

It was the night of a showcase for new artists that Edgehill was hosting. She was at rehearsal for an hour before she went looking for him.

She found him face down on the bed in his hotel room, an empty bottle of alcohol next to him.

"Babe?" She said, stepping towards him, "Babe, please don't do this again. We've got a gig." Her voice cut through the room, but he didn't stir, "Come on, please get up." She reached for his arm again, momentarily startling him from his slumber, and he lifted his elbow hard and fast, striking her in the face. Her hand flew up to cover her face as she stumbled back, trying to regain her balance; she barely caught herself before she hit the floor. She retracted her hand from her face and saw blood, red and bright, the pain came a moment later.

She glanced at Deacon, but he was face down on the bed again, not moving. She stumbled towards the door, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision. She reached for the door and missed the handle, leaving a smear of blood on the white paint of the door. She stared at it momentarily, horrified, and then reached for the handle again. She made her way back to her room, the blood smear on the door flashing behind her eyes as she walked.

Deacon would see it later and search his body for an open wound.

Bucky arrived at Rayna's room exactly six minutes after she'd phoned him, her muffled voice coming down the line, "Bucky?" was all she'd said.

"I'll be right there."

Bucky found her in the bathroom. By now, the bleeding had subsided, but on the bathroom counter remained a once-white washcloth now stained with her blood.

"Rayna." Bucky's voice was gentle, "What happened?" He asked, leaning up against the bathroom counter. His gaze was soft as he looked at her face, trying not to react. Her eye was already starting to turn dark, black and blue splotches forming under her right eye.

She didn't look at him, her eyes just focused on the washcloth. Suddenly, the urge to get the blood out of the cloth became urgent to her. She grabbed it, turned the faucet on, and started scrubbing the material together under the hot water. The water became too hot, and her hands began turning red, but she didn't care. She watched as the blood seeped out of the rag into the white sink, mesmerized as it swirled down the drain. She washed until only a faint pink remained on the cloth, and the tears came when she realized she would never be able to get all the blood out, not with only water.

Bucky stood watching her, and when she started to cry, he reached over and turned the faucet off, gently took the cloth from her hands and placed it on the counter. Then, he grabbed her by the shoulder, and pulled her into a hug.

She sank into him as he flattened his palm against her back, his hand moving in soothing circles. "Shhh." He whispered, and when her tears finally subsided he asked again. "What happened?"

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, "Deacon." She edged the word out, and nearly winced when she spoke; she hadn't expected it to hurt so much to say it.

Rayna felt Bucky stiffen at her word, and she quickly pulled away from him so she could see him. She saw his jaw set, and watched rage settle on to his face, his eyes dark.

"No, no, no, no, no." She said, her words rushed as she read his thoughts. "It wasn't like that."

"Rayna." Bucky's voice was still gentle, but firm—a warning.

"I know what you're thinking, Buck. But, I promise you. He didn't hit me." At his skeptical look, she continued, "He did, but he didn't. It was an accident. He was passed out, and I was trying to wake him up. He rolled over and his elbow caught me in the face." She touched his shoulder, "I _promise_ , Buck."

Bucky eyed her, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. Making the decision, he brushed his finger lightly over her cheek, his finger passing just underneath the darkening bruise under her eye.

He nodded once. "Okay." He dropped his hand, "I'll get your makeup team in here, see what they can do."

Rayna nodded once, and offered him a small smile—it wasn't much, but he returned it, and then left the bathroom, shaking his head slightly as he left. When she was alone, she splashed cold water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror until she heard her makeup team file into the room.

The show had gone fine, nothing to write home about one way or the other, but she was thankful now to be in her room. Rayna pushed herself up from the couch and headed into the bathroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror and shook her head. It was amazing what a little makeup could do. Leaning forward, she stared at the spot under her eye—you couldn't even see a hint of a bruise. She ran a cotton swab over her face, removing her makeup, saving her eye for last. She watched as the makeup disappeared, replaced with a thick black-blue mark—without thinking, she pressed the skin and winced.

A knock at the door startled her, and when she made her way to the door and looked through the peephole, her stomach tied itself in knots. She opened the door, careful to hide the right side of her face.

"Hi." Deacon was standing there, his shirt rumpled, his hair wild, his eyes red. He was sober, but just barely.

"Hi." She returned.

"Can I come in?" Deacon's voice was quiet, but Rayna hesitated. When she didn't answer, he spoke again, "Please?"

"Fine." She held the door open, but turned away from him so he couldn't see her face. She stared out the window, keeping the right side of her face as far away from him as possible. She heard the door click and felt him step next to her.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry I missed the showcase… I know… Rayna, please look at me." She didn't move, "Please. I'm so sorry, I know I let the band down, I know I let you down and I just… _please look at me_." His voice was filled with desperation, and she could hear that he was on the verge of tears. " _Please_." The knot in her stomach tightened.

Finally, she turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry," He said again, looking at her, "I'm…" He suddenly stopped.

She watched the emotions as they played across his face—confusion, followed by shock, followed by anger.

"What—what happened?" He asked, his voice panicked.

She crossed her arms over her chest, "Nothing."

"Ray, that's _not_ nothing. You have a black eye!" She saw his eyes dart to the bathroom, where the washcloth was still next to the sink, "Shit, Rayna, were you _bleeding_?"

"I'm fine." She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

He stepped towards her, and she took a step back. "You're not fine, _what happened_?"

For a moment, she considered lying to him, but there was no angle she could see where that would work.

She inhaled, choosing her words very carefully. "I went looking for you before the showcase, and I found you in your room." She couldn't look at him before, but now she couldn't take her eyes off of him, "You were passed out, and I… I tried to wake you up."

"Wait." Deacon interrupted her, "Are you saying… you're saying that…" His face contorted, " _I did this to you_." It wasn't a question.

"It was an accident, Deacon, I was trying to wake you up, and I pulled on your arm and you threw your elbow back and…" She watched as horror settled on his face, and she rushed to speak, "You didn't do it on purpose, it wasn't… you didn't hit me." She finished.

"Oh god." Deacon put his hands on his knees and bent over, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." His head snapped up, "The blood. Oh my god, it was _your blood_." He stood up, then, and looked at her, "I…" He trailed off.

"It's okay, it's okay." Rayna stepped toward him.

He put his arm out and stumbled back—the couch hit his knees and he sank on to it. "It's _not okay_ , Rayna. How can you tell me it's okay?" He was crying now, "I gave you a black eye! I… I _made you bleed_!" His voice broke. "I can't even say I'm sorry—god, I _am_ sorry, but how is that something I can apologize for?" He ran his hand down his face, "Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry," He put his head in his hands, and his words were muffled, "I'm a monster. I'm a _fucking monster_."

Rayna went to him then, sat next to him on the couch. She reached for him, but when she placed her hand on his shoulder he recoiled from her touch. She folded her hands in her lap. "You're _not_ a monster, Deacon." She sighed, "You're _not_."

He looked at her, "How can you even _say_ that? Look what I did to you, look what I did to your beautiful face, Ray." He laughed, but it held no mirth, "God, you're the only woman I've ever loved, and look what I done to you. I can never forgive myself for this. _Not ever_. You must hate me."

"Deacon, you're not a monster. You're _sick_ , babe." She reached her hand out to him again, and this time he accepted her touch. "And I don't hate you. I could _never_ hate you. I don't feel like I know who you are when you're like this—you're not the man I know you are when you're like this. But hate? No. Not even close." She brushed the hair back from his forehead, "But you are sick, and you do need help."

He nodded, and started to cry again—the sobs shook his body, and Rayna brought him into her arms, his head resting on her chest. "I'll do whatever you want, baby." His words were quiet, and she had to hold her breath to hear them, "I'll go to rehab again, I'll do whatever you want." She smoothed his hair, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so _fucking_ sorry." He whispered against her chest.

"Shhhh." She said, but he kept whispering variations of 'sorry' until he fell asleep against her, his breath soft and hot against her skin.

After he was asleep, Rayna whispered "It's okay" over and over again until she nearly believed that it was, and then she cried.

In the morning she made the call, and she thought maybe it would be.


	3. 3

_I've seen my name in lights, I've seen my face in papers  
but my civilian life, I spent ten good years waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting,  
waiting for you_

 _You charmed the snake,_  
 _You picked the card,_  
 _You bent the spoon;_  
 _A curved plane, the shapes change,_  
 _Euclid's made to play to fool, but_  
 _I don't know what that stuff does to you_  
 _and I don't know if it's real, but_  
 _I spent a decade in love with you_  
 _and I can't tell if you're here_

* * *

The fame had come like a freight train: fast, hard, and loud. It swooped her up, and just kept careening down the tracks, she couldn't get off even if she wanted to. She didn't want to, but she might have hit the brakes a bit, cruised into it, instead of barreling. People knew who she was now, they'd stop her in the market and ask for an autograph, they'd whisper and wave as she walked by, they'd talk to her like they knew her.

They didn't, though. Know her.

All those pictures of her in the newspaper, her face smiling back at them, led people to think she was accessible, that they _knew_ her like they knew the girl next door. It's why she was playing tonight at a big venue in Nashville, her name spelled out in bright white bulbs, beckoning people to see her sing.

"We're sold out." Bucky said, she was sitting in her dressing room before sound check, taking stock of the various floral arrangement people had sent her.

She grinned, and felt the tears come, "Really?"

Bucky nodded, then wrapped her into a quick hug. "Congratulations." He smiled, his dimples prominent, as he headed out the door. "Sound check in five." He said, closing the door behind him.

Rayna found herself smiling into the mirror after he'd left—it was her first sold out show. Looking at her face, she ran her fingers over the surface of it, assuring herself that this was real, that she was here, that this was a thing that was actually happening. She was 23, but somedays she felt like she was at least two decades older, she felt like her heart was putting in miles her body hadn't. And somedays she felt like she was still 16, wobbling on stage at her first open mic, hoping someone—anyone—would want to listen to her sing.

Tonight, 20,000 people did.

Staring at herself, she watched as her smile fell, watched as something settled over her face that she could never quite place, but which felt like a mixture of sadness and longing. She'd felt it since that night two years ago, when she sat in front of a mirror with a black eye. She shook her head, trying to stop her mind from wandering. She didn't have time to go down that particular road today, especially since she suspected if she let herself travel too far _down_ it, she would never come back.

Standing up, she smoothed her hand over her dress, and walked out of the dressing room, down the hall, and out on stage.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him, his guitar slung across his body. When she first met him, she used to wonder if he would always steal her breath like that—but she'd known him long enough now to know that he would.

"Hey!" Deacon smiled when he saw her.

"Hey, yourself." She said, smiling back.

"Your first sold out show!" He reached out and ran his hand down her arm.

She bit her lip and nodded. "I can't believe it!"

Deacon laughed, "I can." He winked at her.

She blushed, and her stomach tightened. She took her place at the front of the stage, and glanced back at him before the band started up.

It was so hard to see him like this—to see him every day, but not in the way she wanted. Not in the way she thought he wanted. When he'd gotten out of rehab a year and a half ago, they'd tried to be together again. But it didn't work, not because they didn't want it to—but because Deacon wasn't ready for the 13th step. When things started to go south for him, when he started missing meetings and dodging Coleman, she'd had an honest and frank talk with him.

She knew that she would never get the words he'd said to her out of his head. _I can't be with you, Ray. I can't look at you, at your beautiful face, without thinking about what I did to it._ She'd started to cry, then, but she'd nodded anyway. He'd sighed, and reached for her face before thinking better of it and stuffing his hand in his pocket. _I hate myself for it, and even though I made amends to you, I can't forgive myself for it, not yet. And it's all I see._

She'd told him she understood—and she did.

And so, they were friends. _Friends_. But she knew the truth: she'd tied a string through the hole in her heart that _being only friends_ with Deacon had left, and given it to him where she assumed he'd done the same on his end. So, they were friends.

The show went well, the energy of the crowd was palpable, and backstage after it was over, Rayna thought she would never get enough of the crowd chanting her name.

At the afterparty, people kept coming up to her congratulating her, telling her what a great job she'd done. Reporters interviewed her, and the crowd swirled around her, buzzing with energy. A man had come up to her, some radio promoter, tall with sandy hair and brown eyes, and asked her out. He was friendly, and funny, and she found herself hearing Bucky's voice in her head, his constant refrain— _you can't be alone forever_. She surprised herself when she said yes.

They'd gone on a date the next night, and she found herself laughing, having a good time, and after it was over and he'd asked for a second date and she'd accepted, she congratulated herself for only feeling guilty most of the date, not all.

The next date was two days later, and when he walked her to her door, he kissed her and she cried. Nevertheless, she agreed to a third date.

And then the pictures hit the paper. _Rayna Jaymes and Her Secret Lover_. It was so crude, so bombastic, such a distortion of the truth. But, it spread, and by the time rehearsal came around, her band was jostling her good-naturedly. Everyone except, of course, Deacon. Deacon, instead, showed up thirty minutes late, and refused to look her in the eye, stare at him though she might.

She was worried he'd been drinking, but the truth was he'd been stuck in a conversation with Coleman. Deacon had placed a desperate phone call to Coleman, "I'm going to drink." He'd said, his voice hard on the line.

Coleman had come over to find Deacon in his living room, the day's paper placed strategically next to a bottle of whiskey.

"You've just been staring at the picture?" Coleman said, stepping into the room.

Deacon nodded, "For three _fucking_ hours." It was a grainy image of Rayna being led by some man, their fingers interlocked, their faces bright and smiling.

Coleman sat down next to him. "You've got 11 months, and you're going to throw it away over a _picture_?" His voice was incredulous.

Deacon pursed his lips. "It ain't just a picture. You know it ain't just a picture."

Coleman nodded his head and reached for the paper. "I do know." He grabbed it, crumpling it in his hands, "I also know that _this shit_ is not healthy, Deacon." Taking a chance, he leaned across Deacon and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, relieved when Deacon didn't move to stop him. He went into the kitchen, opened the bottle, and poured it down the sink. He shoved the newspaper in the garbage disposal, ran the water, and turned it on. Bad for the pipes, but good for the man in the next room.

Coleman ventured back into the living room, "This thing between you and Rayna is too intense, man. It's too deep…it's too caustic." Coleman eyed Deacon, "You need to let it go."

Deacon looked at Coleman then, "I can't."

"You can." Coleman nodded once.

"I can't… she's…" Deacon trailed off, and he nearly swallowed his next words as he spoke, "She's my higher power."

Coleman froze, and fixed Deacon with a hard stare. "What?"

Deacon sighed, "You heard me, Cole."

"Yeah, I did. But I'm going to need you to say that again."

Deacon rolled his eyes, feeling the anger start to seep into his body, "Rayna. She's my damn higher power, okay? It's not god, it's not nature, it's not the _fucking_ stars… It's Rayna." Seeing Coleman's look, Deacon shrugged, "Don't look at me like that. It's worked for 11 months, hasn't it?"

Coleman stuffed his hands in his pockets, "I just came over here and poured a bottle of whiskey down the sink because you saw a photograph in the newspaper. So, no. I don't really think it's _worked_." Coleman sat down on the couch next to him, "You need to let this go." Deacon narrowed his eyes, "You need to let this go… or you need to figure out a way to convince yourself that you deserve it."

Deacon stood, "I've got to get to rehearsal."

Coleman stood and walked with him to the door, "One or the other, man. It has to be one or the other, because this sure isn't working."

After sound check, Rayna followed Deacon into the hall. Their other band members filtered around them and out the door. She grabbed his hand, and pulled him off to the side.

"Hey." She followed his eyes with hers until he looked at her, "You okay?"

Deacon nodded once. "Fine. How was your date?"

Rayna closed her eyes and sighed, "So, you did see that."

"All of Nashville's seen it, Rayna." At her nod, he continued, "So, how was it?"

"Fine." She shrugged.

He nodded once, "Are you going to see him again?" His eyes bored into her.

"I…" She stammered, "I don't know. Do you _want_ me to see him again?"

A quick shot of anger went through him at her question, "What the hell does that mean? Of course I don't want you to see him again!"

Rayna put her hands on her hips, "Well, I don't know, Deacon! You're the one who said we couldn't be together like that, that it was too intense, and now you're acting jealous? What, you don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me, either?" She raised her eyebrows at him.

He stepped closer to her, "Yes." His arm snaked out and curled around her hip, bringing her to him, "Except _I do want you_. More than anything else in this world, and that's the problem." His words were slow, measured, "But, to hell with all that."

Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, hard and fast—his hands moved up her sides, skating over the sides of her breasts until they landed in her hair. He pulled her to him, hard, and her hands slid up his back until they were buried in his hair, her fingers smoothing over his head as their lips moved against one another. His tongue sought entrance to her mouth, and Rayna moaned as she felt his tongue push into her mouth, sliding against hers. They kissed deeply, enjoying the feel of one another, until Deacon pulled away. He smoothed his hand down her hair, and then leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

He looked at her, "I love you, Ray." His breath was hot against her mouth, "And I'm sorry for all that I've done to you. The thing is, I just can't live without you."

She smiled then, and brought her face forward to kiss him.

He grabbed her hand and led her down the hallway, "Come on," he tugged on her arm as they went down the stairs, and squeezed her hand, "Let's go home."

 _Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna!_ She could hear the chanting of her name, the sound of 50,000 voices speaking together, the noise in the arena nearly deafening. A few years ago, the idea would have exhilarated her, but now the repetition of her name haunted her, instead; reminded her of the night nearly a year ago, when she'd come home from a press event to find Deacon on the floor, his face flush against the hardwood.

She'd crouched down next to him, ran hand gently down his arm, "Deacon?" She'd whispered.

He'd started having a drink or two before bed, she'd found out before the press event, just to help him sleep. She'd yelled at him then, screamed at him, drowning out the "I'm sorry" that would inevitably fall from his lips.

She'd held her hand up, "I can't do this right now, Deacon. I have to go press the flesh, answer questions about my love life, pretend I haven't spent the last _decade_ waiting on you to figure this shit out."

When she got home, she surveyed the room, and knew he'd had more than just a few tonight.

"Deacon?" She whispered again.

"Rayna?" He said, his words thick as he lifted his head. He sat up, and propped his back against the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"I'm here." Her voice was soft.

She watched him press his back into the couch, watched him lift his arms to circle his knees—he started to cry, then. "Rayna," He said again, and the word was distorted, "Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna," He rocked back and forth on the floor, and she sat helpless, watching him cry. She reached her hand out to him, and placed it gently on his arm. His skin was warm underneath her hand, and she said a silent thank you, because she always worried that one day his body would stop being warm to her touch.

 _Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna!_ As she made her way to the stage,the crowd was chanting her name in adoration, but all she heard was Deacon's voice that night, filled with quiet desperation, her name falling from his lips over and over and over again.


	4. 4

_A/N: Gratuitous sex scene at the end of this chapter; readers uninterested in such things, please be advised._

 _The man I knew  
I don't think that he can hear me now  
So dizzy with the altitude  
It's just too far  
Who am I to tell you to come down?_

 _Lucky that my palate still prefers a legal poison_  
 _Who am I to tell you to come down?_  
 _Sit back and raise a glass, a glass to easy choices_  
 _Who am I, yeah, who am I, yeah who am I_  
 _To tell you to come down?_

* * *

Rayna found him at the sixth bar she went to, he was tucked away in a booth, some chesty blonde in a lowcut dress that was at least one size too tight had sidled up next to him. He wasn't paying attention to her, his eyes were focused on the shot glass in front of him, but her arm was draped behind him, and her fingers were making lazy circles on the front of his shoulder.

Rayna walked up to the table and stood in front of it, her hands on her hips. "Hey." She said to Deacon, who refused to look at her. She turned her attention to the blonde, "Leave."

The blonde popped her gum, her hand stilled on Deacon's shoulder. "And who the hell are you?"

Rayna stared at the blonde. She wasn't in the mood for a fight with anyone but Deacon tonight, "Did you not hear me?" She put her hands on the edge of the table, " _Leave_." She said again, her voice betraying her anger.

The blonde looked at Deacon, obviously expecting him to intervene on her behalf. When he didn't even look at her, she roughly removed her arm from around him, and pushed up from the table with a sigh of disgust. "Whatever. You can have him." She said as she walked away, nearly tripping on her high heels.

Rayna slid in to the booth on the opposite side of Deacon. "I said _hey_." Her voice was strained by barely controlled anger. When Deacon didn't answer, she folded her hands in front of her. "You sure had a lot to say earlier." She gave a small, bitter laugh. "You wanted to _fight_ earlier, right? Well, why not now?"

Deacon finally looked at her then, and then he picked the shot glass up, brought it to his lips, and tipped the contents into the back of his throat and swallowed. He never took his eyes away from Rayna's, even as he poured another.

She made a little sound, pushing all the air out through her nostrils. She nodded her head a little, and smiled—but there was no joy behind it. Quickly, she reached for the shot glass and brought it to her lips, watching Deacon as she tipped it back, then set the glass back down on the table. It burned the back of her throat, and she pressed her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them, Deacon was still staring at her, pouring more liquor into the glass.

When it was full, he slid it across the table to her. It stopped in front of her, and the alcohol sloshed a bit over the side. She picked it up with her fingertips, and swallowed again, more prepared for the burn this time. When she set it down, she brought her fingers up to her lips and licked the alcohol off.

She didn't really drink anymore, hadn't in a while, and the warmth of the alcohol in her stomach spread through her quickly.

Deacon smirked at her, and poured the remaining contents of the bottle into the glass. He drank half, and then handed the rest to her.

She took it from him and downed it, relishing the fact that it went down much easier than the first two.

"Been awhile." He said, his voice rough. She could tell he wasn't drunk for the first evening in two weeks. Not yet.

She nodded, she hadn't had a drink with Deacon in over four years.

The waiter, noticing their empty bottle, stopped by the table. "Can I get you another bottle?"

Deacon smiled, his eyes still fixed on Rayna. "Yes."

Rayna spoked on top of his word, "No." Her voice was firm, "We've had enough." The edge in her voice left no doubt as to whom the waiter would believe as he left.

Deacon tipped the empty shot glass over, it clashed against the table and rolled a bit before stopping in a groove, "Rayna Jaymes, ladies and gentlemen, the boss."

Rayna rolled her eyes, "What does that mean?" Her tongue felt loose, the alcohol working its way through her blood.

"It means," He drew the 's' out, "That you're the boss, Rayna. It's your world, babe, and everyone else is just living in it."

She narrowed her eyes, "Is that so?" At his nod, she continued, "Well, then if it's _such a problem_ for you, Deacon, don't live in it."

His laugh was short. He reached out and spun the shot glass, "You and I know it's much too late for that." He stilled the glass, "Besides, we're… _friends_ , right? Isn't that what you said we were?" He spat the word _friends_ out like it had a bad taste. Truth was, it did.

"I did." She nodded once, "But maybe I spoke too soon, if this is how you treat your friends."

Deacon raised his eyebrows, "Is this how you treat _your_ friends, Rayna? You search for them for…" He checked his watch, "What? Two hours? How many bars did you have to go to?"

She sighed, "Six."

"Six." He shrugged, "You do all that for _all your friends_ , Rayna?"

"All the ones who are alcoholics." She lied.

He chuckled, "Liar." He reached out and took her hand, stroking it gently.

She felt the tears spring to her eyes at his touch, and chastised herself, blaming the alcohol for her reaction, when she knew it was no one's fault but Deacon's. Any time he touched her, she was within an inch of tears, for one reason or another.

She pulled her hand away, "Don't do this, Deacon."

He grabbed her hand again, and brought the inside of her wrist to his lips, placed a gentle kiss there. "You cry when your friends touch your hand, Ray?" He asked, his lips still against her flesh.

"Stop." She said, her voice quiet.

He kissed her wrist again.

"Stop." She said, louder this time, and she pulled her hand away, remembering why she came her. Remembering the things he'd said earlier, when he'd been so ready to fight. "We can't do this; _you_ can't do this. It's too much drama, Deacon, things between us are too volatile." Her voice was more frantic than she meant it to be, " _This_ is how you react to _any_ situation between us—you take the easy way out. You make the easy choice." She gestured to the table, the shot glass still on its side, "You drink."

Deacon's gaze was fixed on her, and a strange look came over his face, "You want to talk about easy, Rayna? About easy choices? Let's talk." His eyes were full of challenge, rage nestled under his words. "Let's talk about Teddy Conrad."

Rayna felt herself flush, "That's none of your business anymore, Deacon."

He shrugged, "Oh, but I'm your _friend_. So, I guess maybe it is." He raised his voice, "So, what's he like? What's he like in your bed?"

Rayna felt anger overtake her then, "That's none of your _fucking_ business." She said again, her eyes on fire.

Deacon had found the button he was looking for, "I bet he's boring as hell. Missionary every night, am I right?"

Rayna's gaze darkened, and she stood up from the booth, "You know what, Deacon? _Fuck you_. I'm not doing this tonight."

She made her way through the bar, acutely aware of Deacon's presence behind her. When she made it outside, she turned left down an empty alley, and then she spun on him. Surprising him, he found his back against the wall, "What do you want to hear, Deacon? Do you want the details of my _sex life_?"

He flinched, but recovered quickly, "I want you to stop pretending you _have_ a sex life with that guy." He leaned in closer to her, his voice dark, "I want you to stop pretending it's not my hands you want on your body, that it's not me you think about."

Rayna opened her mouth to speak, ready to deny it, but she found no words on her tongue.

"That's what I thought." He leaned his head further down, until his lips were just inches from hers, and waited.

Suddenly, she closed the distance, and her lips crashed down on his, her tongue opening his mouth. They kissed, hard, before he spun her around so it was now her back that was against the wall. She whimpered at the contact, her stomach constricting as he kissed her roughly, his hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her close to him. They broke apart, breathing heavily into each other.

His hand skated under the hem of her dress, his fingers applying light pressure to her inner thigh, as they caressed the soft skin there.

He bit her ear and then whispered into it, "Is this what you want?" His breath was hot in her ear, and she nearly whimpered at the sensation that shot through her body at his words. He brought his mouth back to hers, but didn't kiss her.

"Yes." She said, but it came out strangled. "Touch me." She kissed him, and the moment the words left her lips, he let his hand crawl farther up her dress—his fingers found her center, and he touched her there, the damp fabric the only barrier between his fingers and her. He stroked her, and she let out a gasp against his mouth.

"You're so wet." He growled, but his voice was still somehow tender, "This is what I want, Rayna. I want you to _stop pretending_ this isn't what you want, any way you can get it." He reached underneath the fabric, and his fingers brushed against her, her wetness evident—he moaned as he slid his fingers against her.

"Yes." She hissed.

"What do you want, baby?" He bit her lip.

Every nerve in her body was on fire, and she fixed him with her heady gaze. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her rational mind was speaking to her, but his fingers against her, his body pressed into her, drowned every rational thought out of her mind. "You." She said, and she pressed herself into his hand. "Right now."

"More specific." He commanded, the tip of his finger playing with her opening.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and lifted herself slightly, so he could get a better angle. She knew what he wanted her to say. He wanted her to give voice to her desire. She knew shouldn't say it. She knew she should be embarrassed to say it, but it seemed inevitable. And, anyway, she'd never been embarrassed with him.

"I want you," She said, her eyelids fluttering closed, "To _fuck me_." The words came out as a whisper, they came out as the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

He eased a finger inside her, and her eyes flew open. He moved inside her, and her head lolled back. He kissed her neck, and then brought a second finger. "Yeah?" He asked, his lips still on her neck, his teeth scraping the skin there.

"Yeah." She breathed.

"Right here, right now?" He asked, his fingers moving quicker.

"God, yes." She said, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to meet her mouth.

They kissed, and then he pulled away, "Say it."

She shuddered, but a slow smile spread across her face, "I want you to _fuck me_. Right here, right now." Her eyes were hooded, " _Hard._ "

He withdrew his fingers, and brought them to his mouth, never taking his eyes off her, and then he smirked, "You're the boss."

He turned her around so her face was up against the wall. The brick was cold against her cheek, and she turned to look at him—her brain was cloudy, and she realized she hadn't been this turned on in a long time. She struggled to remember a time she'd ever been _this_ turned on. The thought was pushed to the side as Deacon hitched her dress up, his rough hands skating up and then down her sides.

His mouth was on her neck, and she pressed herself back into him, moaning when she felt how hard he was. With one swift movement, he brought her underwear down, and she stepped out of them.

In the back of her mind, she heard a zipper coming undone, and in the next moment he was pressing against her, his skin hot against her own.

Rayna cried out as he slid into her, and he brought his lips to her ear, "Shhhh." She vaguely remembered they were in public, but she couldn't bring herself to care, the feeling of him inside of her was too overwhelming, too everything she'd wanted.

He gave her a moment to adjust, and then he began moving inside of her, his strokes hard and fast. His hands came around to cup her breasts through her dress, and she arched her back into him.

"Yes," She heard herself saying, followed by things like 'harder,' and 'faster,' and unintelligible words that came on her breath. Then, "Fuck me." Deacon's movements grew frantic, and Rayna knew he was close. She was, too.

Deacon took his mouth from her neck and whispered in her ear, "Come for me, baby. Come for me right now," He accentuated his words with thrusts, and his breath in her ear sent her over the edge. She found herself shuddering, her head thrown back as he cupped her breast. "That's it, baby, that's it." He whispered in her ear, and then he followed her over the edge, moaning into her as his orgasm shot through his body.

Their breathing was labored as they came down, he slipped out of her and then turned her around to face him. He adjusted her dress, pulling it down until it covered her. He took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss lightly to her lips. He took her by the hand, led her out of the alley, and ushered her into a cab, sliding in behind her, closing the door.

The ride to her apartment is silent, there isn't anything to say; and anyway, she's not sure she can speak. She's not sure she would, even if she could. She hazily realizes that she left her underwear in the alley, and for a moment she imagines someone finding them; the imagined story, she knew, wouldn't even be close to the truth.

Deacon will hold her tonight, she knows, he will sleep next to her, and pull her body into his. They will kiss tenderly, they will soothe the scars as much as they can, and then the morning will come. The dawn will break, and with it so will her heart, again, more, though she'd have told you yesterday that wasn't possible. She'll hand him the phone, his thick fingers will press the buttons, and she'll avert her gaze, trying in vain not to think of where those same fingers were only hours earlier.

He'll talk to intake in clipped words, they'll tell him he can come by admin in an hour, and then he'll hang up, get dressed, and make coffee. She'll stay in bed, getting up only to say goodbye.

"I'll call." He'll whisper, and she'll think that maybe he will (he won't). And she'll think that maybe she will answer (she wouldn't have).

When he leaves, he'll kiss her on the cheek. As he drives away, she'll reach her hand up to her face, unsure if the tingling she feels is a remnant of his lips on her cheek just now, or a remnant of the brick wall flush against it last night. She'll have time to figure it out, but she never will.


	5. 5

_Last night you came to kiss me in a dream and when I woke  
What kind of foolishness is this,  
Breathed out a lungful of your smoke._

 _I've seen you at your brightest,  
What a mind, let it burn-  
Who am I to pull you down to Earth?  
Yeah, who am I to tell you to come down?_

- _The Man I Knew, Dessa_

* * *

Rayna awoke with a start, the sheets cold and damp around her, slick from her sweat. The morning light was just peeking in to say hello, just coming in to greet the day. She was breathing heavily, feeling equal parts panicked and aroused. She glanced at the man next to her, saw the covers pulled up around his chin, his face expressionless. He was sleeping peacefully, and she rolled out of bed.

When her feet hit the floor, and she went to stand up, her legs felt wobbly underneath her. She sat back down on the bed, pressing her body deeply into it, grounding herself. Her head was pounding in tune with her heart, her breath rushing fast and hard out of her lungs.

She'd been dreaming of Deacon for weeks now, visceral dreams that always felt like they were real. Sometimes, she dreamt about that night against the alley wall, how he buried himself inside of her and made her forget where they were, who they were. Sometimes she dreamt she found him dead, surrounded by liquor bottles. Sometimes she dreamt they were on vacation, some tropical location where the locals recommended food and landmarks, but they mostly stayed on the beach or in the room, wrapped up in one another. Once, she dreamt they were a family—they had a little cottage by the sea, and two children who looked exactly like their father—she felt happy in that dream, three pairs of expressive eyes telling her how much she was loved.

Last night, for the first time in at least a year, she'd dreamt of the very first time she'd met him: the bright-eyed boy with a pen tucked behind his ear, a guitar case at his feet, and a beautiful song etched into a napkin. _A song about her_. In her dream, she felt the exact thing she'd felt that night—the incredible feeling that she would never _not_ know this boy.

Now, she hadn't even _seen_ him in two months. But she'd heard the stories. Each one buried itself deep into her heart, where she assumed it would form scar tissue around the images: the bar fights, the random women, the nights in the drunk tank, a DUI.

Shaking her head, Rayna pressed her feet into the carpet, finally standing up. She shrugged on a t-shirt and some jeans, not bothering to wake Teddy to tell him where she was going. Pulling on her boots by the door, she slipped into the morning air.

It was hot already, though the sun wasn't yet fully out; the humidity worked its way into her lungs, had its way with her hair. She thought about walking, thought the hours long walk would clear her mind, but she slid behind the wheel of her new car, instead. She didn't want to wait hours for this, she wasn't sure if she could.

She didn't actually know whether he would be there or not—it was Sunday morning, and even at the end of when they still lived together, whether he would be home or not on Sunday morning was always a mystery. As she drove, she let her mind drift back to when they first moved in together, let herself think about how Sunday mornings _used_ to be between them. They were hot, or lazy, or loving, or some fervent mixture of all three. He'd taught her how to love Sunday mornings—and then he'd taught her how to hate them.

Pulling up to the curb outside of his house, the one he'd bought about 3 months ago, she tried to quiet the nervous voices in her head. Walking up the walkway, she remembered the first conversation she ever had with him on the patch of grass outside this house, right after he'd bought it— _I need something that doesn't have you everywhere inside of it_ , he'd told her.

She'd said she understood, because _god, did she ever understand_. Half the city reminded Rayna of him, despite the fact that she'd grown up in Nashville, despite the fact that she had thousands of memories of this city without him in it. The problem was, she found, that he was in all of her favorite ones; all the memories she wanted to remember, but had to try so hard to forget.

She knocked on his door, and pressed her ear against it, trying to hear through the wood. She knocked again, louder, and heard rustling on the other side. She stepped back, and waited. Then she knocked again.

When he opened the door, she had to stop herself from reaching out to him—she hadn't seen him looking so haggard in a long, long time, if ever.

"Hey," He croaked, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"Hey." She said, staring at him—taking in his shirtless chest, his bloodshot eyes.

"What're you doing here?" He asked her, sticking his head halfway out the door.

"Can I come in?" She wrung her hands in front of her.

Deacon shifted on his feet, glanced back inside, and then stepped out on to the porch, shutting the door behind him. She hadn't ever been in his house, and she wondered if he was keeping her out now to keep it that way, or if there was something—or someone—inside that he didn't want her to see. The last thought made her stomach feel a little sick, and she chastised herself for being so ridiculous, given where she had been this morning.

The sun was up now, and she could tell it hurt his eyes, so she moved into the shade of the porch swing, sitting down on it. She pushed her feet into the ground, steadying it as it moved. He sat down next to her, and it swayed softly. She smiled, but it was sad. _How much_ fun _we could have had on this porch swing_.

There was silence between them, and it felt uncomfortable for the first time in the history of them. The thought unnerved her.

"How're you?" She asked, struggling to fill the silence, to keep the panic of how different things were between them from invading every cell of her body.

He looked at her as he let a little laugh out through his nose, "How do I look?" He said it by way of an answer, and it was enough.

Rayna nodded. She stared at him, watching him look at her—she knew he was wondering why she was there. "I had a dream about you last night," She explained.

Deacon didn't respond; he just looked at her, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Rayna smiled, "I dreamt about the night we first met. Remember that?" She asked, her voice wistful.

He nodded once, "Every damn day."

She felt his words in her heart; that's how often she thought of it, too.

"You were so…" She trailed off, searching for the word, "Vibrant. A little cocky," She laughed, remembering, "I remember thinking _wow_ for weeks after we met. That's it. Just… _wow_."

He crossed his arms over his bare chest, watching her carefully.

"The first time I saw you on stage, singing one of your songs… I never wanted to stop watching you, whether you were on a stage or off one. I _couldn't_ stop watching you." She sighed, bringing her hand to her forehead, wiping the light sheen of sweat from her brow, "I still can't. It's just…" She looked at him, "Painful now." She dropped her hand to the back of the porch swing, "Because I remember how you _were_."

Deacon cleared his throat, "I remember, too." His voice was gravelly.

She nodded, "I know you do." She tapped her fingers on the porch swing, the wood in need of a paint rough beneath her fingers, "You're one of the most talented people I've ever met."

"Rayna…" He sounded tired, so very tired.

Rayna cleared her throat, "I don't know…" She sighed, finding the words, "I don't know who I am to tell you to stop. To tell that boy I first met to _please come back_. But…" She blinked, trying to evade the tears threatening to fall, " _Please come back_."

Deacon chewed his lip, his teeth working on his bottom lip so hard Rayna was worried he might draw blood. "You don't know who you are, Rayna?" He asked, his voice a whisper, raspy and harsh.

She furrowed her brow in confusion, and shook her head. "No." She was surprised to find she could speak.

Deacon turned his head to the side, considering her. He brought his hand to her face, ran his thumb across her soft cheek. He laughed a little, "That's just it, Rayna." His thumb stilled on her face, his eyes searching hers, "You're _everything_."

Rayna felt her eyes watering, "Then _please come back_." She whispered as he dropped his hand from her face.

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips and he inhaled sharply at the contact, at the feel of her soft lips against his.

"Please." She whispered against his lips.

He nodded, "Okay." His voice was quiet, but it sounded so much like a promise.

She stood from the swing and walked to the edge of the porch, the sound of her boots clicking on the concrete hard against her ears, his word working its way down into her stomach, planting a seed there. It was then that she felt it—hope rising from her stomach, billowing in her chest for the first time in years, because this felt different somehow. He felt different somehow. _Okay_.

When she was halfway down the walkway, she turned to look back at him, a light breeze running by—he was staring at her with a soft gaze, his back pressed against the porch swing. And for just a moment she saw the bright-eyed boy she first met so many years ago, she saw the boy who ignited a spark in her she didn't even know she had, she saw the boy who taught her how to love: _please come back_ , she whispered on the wind.

She strained to hear it, but her body ached when she did: _Okay_.

* * *

 _End._


End file.
